


Hearteater

by Margo_Kim



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Gen, I blame the existence of Hannibal, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:59:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margo_Kim/pseuds/Margo_Kim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first bite is the worst. That’s what Daenerys tells her to keep her going.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hearteater

The first bite is the worst. That’s what Daenerys tells her to keep her going, to force down that chunk of raw flesh, swallow, take another, teeth in the meat and meat in her teeth, tearing, ripping, juices squirting, dripping down her face, dripping down her nice, nice dress.

The second bite is the worst, Daenerys tells her then, her hand on Sansa’s back, rubbing circles as Sansa chokes and gags on the meat, the thick fat bleeding lump of meat inside of her. On the second bite, your body knows what’s coming this time and it knows it doesn’t want it. The second bite is the worst.

Then Sansa takes the third, and this is it, this is the worst, the most bitter, the most rank, the smell of rotting flesh and the taste of it on her tongue, though it can’t be rotting, no, the body it came from is still warm as the blood drains sluggishly away, but Sansa tastes maggots and decay. She can’t bring herself to swallow, but she will not throw up, will not spit out. She clamps her hand over her lips and chews and chews and chews until it is just mash, nothing but that. It’s sour porridge in her mouth and she cries like a child as she swallows.

“Look at me,” Daenerys says, grabs Sansa’s chin when Sansa will not. “What are you eating?”

A strange question, a stupid question, as if the answer was clenched in Sansa’s hands.  “You know what it is.”

“Name it.”

Sansa’s belly is too full, and she is still starving, and she is not yet out of tears. They mingle with the blood smeared across her face. How pink she must look, pink and rare. “Meat,” she says. “It’s just meat. It’s just meat.” She looks down at her hands, cupped together like they held a little bird, but it was not a bird.  _She_  had been no bird.

“What  _is_ it?” Daenerys asks, but that’s not the right question exactly, is it?

A heart, the size of Sansa’s fist, clenched in her fist. Red and dripping and red.

“Cersei,” Sansa replies.

Not meat. Not mash. A lion’s heart, a queen’s heart, a monster’s heart, a mother’s heart, smaller already than it had been when it beat because three bites of it pulsed in Sansa’s warm, churning insides, and she can hear how they hammer with terror.

The fourth bite will be the worst, no, the fifth bite will be, no, it’ll be the sixth, but that’s all a lie. It gets easier as you trudge on, Sansa’s known that for a long time, since she looked her father in his dead eyes and licked the blood off her lips. Bite and swallow, bite and swallow, Cersei’s heart tastes like wine, and Sansa’s drunk enough of that to learn to appreciate the taste.  

In the corner of the throne room, Joffrey screams and screams and screams. He bleeds and clenches his empty scabbard and screams. His sword lies across Sansa’s lap like a napkin. She will not use it on him. Daenerys has claimed him for her dragons already, and Sansa has no desire for his heart. There’s no strength to be gained from him.

She raises Cersei to her lips, presses her lips against the fatty white curve like a kiss. In the background, someone screams, someone roars, someone dies. King’s Landing is burning while the snow begins to falls, and a Targaryen sits on the Iron Throne. It’s a brave old world. She’ll need her protein.

Sansa bites.


End file.
